Sand Queen Part 9

For a long time the dust is so thick I canat see anything at all. I know itas better than being in the front like Yvette, jumping at the sight of every d.a.m.n plastic bag or dead dog on the road, but this blindness is its own kind of scary. Iam supposed to be looking out for those wacko suicide car bombers weave just begun hearing about, and for insurgents who might zoom out of nowhere and throw a grenade or shoot at us. But all I can see are those daytime ghosts, human-shaped dust swirls that loom up in front of me then fall into nothing, leaving my heart hammering, my rifle on lock and load and my head buzzing like a swarm of panicked bees.

aI feel like Iam friggina blindfolded,a I shout to Nielsen over the racket. aCanat see a f.u.c.king thing.a aMaybe you should climb in the back and keep watch out the rear,a he yells in reply.

I glance over my shoulder at him. Is he serious? Thereas nothing back there, not even a shield.

aYeah,a he goes on, like heas talking to himself. aGood idea. Get in the back.a So I have to. He is a sergeant, after all.

This is what I should have to do my job right: A tank, or at least an up-armored gun truck. A real bulletproof vest. A long-range scope. A belt-fed machine gun. And a gun turret.

This is what I actually have: A soft-top Humvee with an open back and canvas doors. A useless flak jacket. And a rifle rapidly clogging up with sand. I might as well be riding into war in a go-cart, wearing a bikini and waving a parasol.

The drive goes on so long it turns hypnotic. The rumble and clank of our Humvee b.u.mping along the tarmac. The deafening roar of all those engines in front of us. The wind whistling and whooshing.

I stare over my rifle through the dust. The desert stretches out in a haze on either side of us, littered with garbage and tire shreds and blocks of squat yellow houses, same color as the sand. Pieces of abandoned military equipment are poking out of the desert, too: shards of rusting metal, sh.e.l.ls of old tanks and bombs, bits of airplane left over from the last war.

We pa.s.s a dead goat lying on its side, so bloated with rot its legs stick out like toothpicks in a sausage.

We pa.s.s the husk of a charred car, the people inside it contorted black skeletons.

We pa.s.s a body run over so often itas flat as a puddle.

We pa.s.s a vulture pulling at what looks like a pile of clothes but turns out to be a little boy.

After that I stop looking.

More hours crawl by. Rumble, stink, rumble. Donat look. Donat see. Back aching. Head aching. Arms burning from holding up the rifle.

Apaches fly past, giant black hornets against the suna" whomp, whomp, whompa"the air batting around my ears. Sand and more sand. Rumble, stink, rumble.

Whatas Jimmy doing? Has he come looking for me? Does he know where I am? Is he worried? Will he ever know how much I love him?

Is Yvette okay? Is Third Eye okay? Are Naema and her dad okay?

I need water. I need a p.i.s.s. I need Jimmy. I need, I needa BOOM!.

The blast is so loud itas like a kick to my chest. The Humvee slams to a halt and Iam flying onto my back. Black smoke blinding me, choking me, radio shriekinga"eye-eedee, eye-ee-deea"but I donat know what it means or where my breathas gone or if Iam hurt or if Iam even alive.

Then I hear: af.u.c.k!a I lie there helpless and winded, trying to make my lungs work and running my mind over my body: No pain, no wounds, no missing limbs that I can tell. I struggle to breathe a moment longer, then soon as I can, heave myself upright and turn around. Nielsenas face is running with blood.

as.h.i.t! You hurt?a I scramble into the front.

aGimme something,a he groans. I pull off my scarf and hand it to him, grease and all. He wipes his face, smearing blood. ad.a.m.n. Iam always getting these frig gina nosebleeds.a I stare.

aWhat the f.u.c.kas your problem?a He thrusts my blood-and-snot-covered scarf back at me. aRadio says a truck up front got hit by an IED. Now we got to sit tight as a nunas c.u.n.t till ordnance gives the all clear.a aSit? Why canat we pull out? Arenat we supposed to keep moving no matter what?a Then I remember Yvette. I throw open the door to jump out.

Nielsen clutches my utility vest and hauls me back in. aWhere the h.e.l.l are you going?a aMy friendas up front! Iave got to find her!a I try again to leave but Nielsen wonat let go of me.

aYou ainat going nowhere. I know itas rough, kid, but you gotta sit here, you know that. Now shut that door quick.a aI canat! I have to find out if sheas okay, I have to!a aWhat you have to do is stay here. Shut the door!a I do. But when I turn back to him, Iam surprised to see his meaty face looking sympathetic. aPray, thatas all we can do right now,a he says gently. aCome on, letas join hands and pray to the Lord to help us.a He reaches out, but I pull back. The last f.u.c.king thing I want to do at this moment is pray, and the second last thing is hold his sweaty paw.

aThanks, but Iam returning to guard position,a I say firmly and clamber into the rear again, rifle in my hands.

We sit and sit. I donat hear Nielsen doing any more praying than I am. Heas just staring at the radio like it holds the secret of the frickina universe. But the radio isnat talking, and nor, for a while, are we.

We sit for another ten minutes or so, while I worry about Yvette. Please let her be alive, I chant in my head over and over, so I guess I am praying after all.

aBrady?a Nielsen calls back to me after a while. aThat is your name, right?a aYup.a aYou ever think we might die any moment?a What a mulchbrain. aSarant, all Iam thinking about right now is my friend.a aI know, I know.a His voice shakes a little. aBut you ever think how sad it would be to die without, you know, having experienced the whole of life?a I donat answer. Just keep my mind on Yvette. If I keep thinking about her real hard, maybe I can keep her safe. Maybe my thoughts will flow over her like a sh.e.l.l, like armor, like a cushion from harm.

aBrady? You listening to me?a I hear a noise and glance back at him. Nielsen is climbing over the seat toward me with this scared, needy look on his face. I donat know what he wants. And I certainly donat intend to find out.

aOncoming vehicle!a I shout, although thereas nothing in sight but dust. aOncoming fast, Sarant! Isnat slowing down!a af.u.c.k!a He flings himself back into the front and ducks below the windshield. aFire!a he screams.

I do. Right up into the harmless air.

aYou hit aem?a he calls, his voice squeaking. I take a peek at hima"heas still lying facedown across the front seats. How a condom-kissing wimp like him ever got to be sergeant, Iave no idea.

aJust a warning shot, Sarant. Theyare driving away now. No weapons visible.a aGood. Keep an eye out there, Brady.a Shakily, he heaves himself up. aDonat take your eyes off that road for one minute.a He sticks his own weapon out the driveras window and fixes his eyes on the desert.

Now that Iave shut the wimp up for the time being, all I can hear is the wind and the blood in my ears thudding and whomping like a chopper flying around inside my head. I wait and wait, muscles taut, trigger finger trembling. Who knows what might come at us while we sit here like toddlers on a toilet? Another homemade bomb? An ambush?

We sit like this for almost an hour, no movement, no news, while, presumably, ordnance clears the road ahead of us of more hidden bombs. I listen for medevac Black Hawks, trying not to imagine the worst for Yvette. Nothing. I listen for another attack. More nothing. Just tension and dread crackling around us like electric wires.

Finally, after what feels like three f.u.c.king days, the radio wakes up with a screech, making us both jump. aAll clear,a it squawks. The convoy rumbles awake, like a dragon shaking itself out of a nap, and one vehicle at a time, it at last begins to roll.

In a few minutes we pa.s.s two of our trucks in the middle of the road, burning. One is tipped over on its side, the other still upright, but both are billowing so much flame and smoke theyare barely visible. I donat know if it was the IED that did that, or if we set the trucks on fire ourselves so the locals canat salvage anything from thema"we do that to our own vehicles all the time, even if thereas nothing wrong but a flat tire. Please donat let Yvette have been in one of those trucks. Please.

At first Nielsen has to drive excruciatingly slow, being right at the end of the dragonas tail like we are, which frustrates me so much I want to shoot him in the face. But gradually the convoy picks up speed, even more than beforea"the dragonas scared nowa"and soon weare barreling along at sixty, swinging into the oncoming lane whenever thereas a block ahead, regardless of who might be there. Cars careen off the shoulder to get out of our way. Families stand stranded by the side of the road, blown by our dust and fumes and wind, looking frightened to death. Some idiot with a pickup full of kids tries to squeeze between us and the truck in front, so we wave our rifles at him and scream at him to get the f.u.c.k out of the way. But thereas still no news of casualties from the radio, and still no news of Yvette.

aYvette,a I swear in my head, aif youare in one piece and we get back from this s.h.i.thole alive, Iam going to share everything I have and everything I ever get with you. Weall help each other get through it, okay? Just be alive and whole, please.a [ NAEMA ].

FOR NEARLY THREE hours, Mama, Granny and I sit in the traffic jam in Umm Qasr, and still n.o.body can move. Rather, it grows worse, for more people keep arriving, pressing frantically toward the hospital. Everywhere, panicked faces. Everywhere, wounds and illness. Everywhere, cars and people pushing and shoving. Yet we remain trapped.

An old man hobbles up and thrusts an anguished face into our car window. aWater? Sisters, please, do you have water?a he begs in a tremulous voice. aI need water for my wounded grandson, please!a aI have no water, grandfather, Iam sorry,a I say, kicking our extra bottle under my seat with one foot. My callousness shames me, but I have to keep Granny alive.

Groaning, the man moves on to the next car while I look in horror at the scenes around me. How have my people been driven to this? What has become of my country?

aNaema, look! Somethingas wrong!a Mama cries at that moment. aWe must leave the car now!a I turn around quickly. Grannyas emaciated face is stretched in new pain, her toothless mouth gasping. Clearly, her vital signs are failinga"she needs oxygen and rehydration, and she needs them both now. I jump out of the car and Mama and I lift her up. Making a chair with our arms, we rush into the crowd with her. The car we abandon to its fate.

Granny moans as we move her, her breath rattling, her murky eyes rolling in fear and confusion. We press ever harder through the ma.s.s of people around us, ruthlessly pushing the small and old out of our way while we pa.s.s more and more wounded and sick. A baby with her leg dangling in oozing shreds. A man with a flayed face, flies buzzing hungrily over the wounds. And when we have finally struggled all the way to the hospital entrance, we force ourselves desperately through the door, surrounded by others equally forceful, equally desperate.

But here it is no better. The hospital corridors are swarming with people! A few blood-splattered nurses are trying to restore order, but the place is more like an overcrowded refugee camp than a house of rest and healing. And it is filthy! Beside us stands a sink full of b.l.o.o.d.y test tubes waiting to be washed. A tiny child lies alone and screaming on a urine-stained gurney, its face and body so blistered with burns I cannot tell its s.e.x. A boy is carried past with a metal shard impaled in his skull, his eyes rolling in agony. In one corner a cl.u.s.ter of people is drinking out of an oil drum, but when I draw near I see that the water is covered with slimy, gray sc.u.m.

aWhatas going on here?a I call to a woman beside me.

aThe hospitalas had no water for three days,a she replies, raising her voice above the din. aThere is only one doctor! Thousands of people have come for help. But there isnat any help!a aWhere are the British doctors?a aWhat British doctors? Thereas n.o.body here, I tell you!a aO Allah!a Mama wails when she hears this. aWhatas to become of my mother?a I look about me, wondering if they have put together a triage team in this h.e.l.lish place. It is hard to admit, but were I in charge, I would tend to these wounded children first, not to an old woman so near her time.

aGranny,a I whisper in her ear, aforgive me, but I must do this.a To Mama I say, aLetas carry her over to that corner. You wait with her there. Iam going to help. My medical training is too precious to waste here.a Mama agrees and I see in her eyes the same knowledge I have. We have gone to all this effort only to bring Granny Maryam to her death.

For the rest of the day I do not see Mama or Granny once. As soon as I explain myself to the nearest aid worker, she commandeers me. aWe have twelve beds, no electricity, and no water,a she tells me dully. aI have no gloves, no equipment to offer you. Stem what bleeding you can. A woman over there is giving birtha"help her. Separate the dying; we canat save them. Make everyone who can walk leave.a I work and work, using what few skills I have. Time becomes one long stream of agonized faces, heartbroken parents, of blood and burns and mutilations. I seal over my mind, clench my teeth and simply do what I must. The baby is born alivea"I tie and cut the umbilical cord and force the mother to get up and go. The boy with the shrapnel in his head dies the minute I touch him. I send him home with his parents, who stagger away, their faces stricken. The burnt child on the urine-soaked gurney, who stopped screaming some time ago, turns out to be dead. Those who are merely sick or diseased I order to leave in cold command. I pull out shrapnel with no anesthetic, waving away swarms of bloodthirsty flies. Bind up legs with shreds of material torn from my own dusty skirt, legs that are little more than a mush of flesh and bone. And soon I, too, am drenched in blood, the deepening red of it seeping through my clothes and chilling my flesh.

I work and work through the rest of the daylight and into the night, until I lose all awareness of my body, and all sense of time.

[ KATE ].

WE DONaT REACH Camp Warhorse until six that evening. Twelve f.u.c.king hours on the road just to go three hundred miles. The convoy parks in a huge circle and the civilian drivers stumble out, shocked and sweaty. I jump out too, the second Nielsen lets me, and run to the lead truck to find Yvette. Please please please.

Thatas when I see the stretchers. Medics are lifting the wounded from a truck and carrying them to a waiting ambulance. Blood and torn flesh everywhere. I run from stretcher to stretcher in a panic, looking for her, getting in peopleas way. A civilian driver with his leg a ma.s.s of gore, a white k.n.o.b of exposed bone where his knee should be. A boy soldier with his arm a ragged stump of blood and skin. A girl soldier with half her face seared off, oozing pink-blood-black.

The bile rises to my mouth.

But still no Yvette.

aEither move your a.s.s or help,a a medic shouts at me, and the next thing I know Iam holding one end of a stretcher and hurrying across the sand with it, trying not to puke. The soldier Iam carrying is the boy whose arm has been blown off and heas shuddering with shock, his face a stretch of gray agony under the blood and soot. I feel his shock entering me till Iam shuddering too. G.o.d, donat let me find Yvette like this.

I help the medic load the poor kid onto the ambulance and turn around to run back for more. Then I hear behind me, aYou still here?a I whirl around. And there she is, all five-foot-one of her standing in the sand looking at me. I throw my arms around her and break into sobs.

aHey, take it easy, babe. Weare both okay, thank the Lord, huh?a She pushes me away gently and stares at the stretchers. aLook at those poor boys and girls. G.o.d, what Iad give to be able to fix those kids.a aMove!a a medic yells and shoves us aside so he can jump into the back of the open ambulance as it drives off. We watch it go. Then, since thereas nothing left for us to do, we turn and trudge toward the tents.

aWhy didnat medevac come?a I ask when Iave pushed down the nausea enough to speak.

aIt was that piece-of-c.r.a.p radio. It didnat work! f.u.c.king cheap-s.h.i.t war.a And thereas nothing else to say.

I follow Yvette through the basea"sheas been here a bunch of times, so knows the way. Rows of dusty tan tents crammed up close together, a few limp sandbags piled around their entrances. Dirty gray sand blotched with pools of motor oil. The usual racket of choppers and trucks.

After I take my long-awaited p.i.s.s, she walks me over to the chow hall, a huge KBR tent she says is filled with row after row of canteen tables and chairs, just like the ones back at Fort Dix. We canat go in right away, though, because a humungous line of sand-covered, worn-out soldiers is standing out front, waiting. So we have to stand there with them. It takes almost an hour.

Still, we make it inside at last, load up on beef stew, salad, OJ and lime Jell-O, and look around for somewhere to sit. After six months of tasteless MREs and T-Rat mush, I should be pretty excited about getting real food at last. But I feel too sick after what Iave seen to have any kind of an appet.i.te.

We weave our way through the hundreds of men around us, their eyes stripping and mind-f.u.c.king us, same as at Bucca, to some empty seats at the end of a table. I pick at my food and Yvette eats fast, both of us too uncomfortable with those thousands of eyes on us even to talk. Then we split for the MWR building. MWR stands for Morale, Welfare and Recreation, which is military bullc.r.a.p for a big metal barn full of Ping-Pong tables and treadmills. But it also has a whole bank of computers that Yvette says actually work at a decent speed, not like those slow-a.s.s machines we have at Bucca.

After another long wait in line, Yvette finally gets a computer at the end of the row while I get one in the middle, and within a few minutes Iam connected. I open my mailbox, stomach fluttering. I need so bad to hear from my old friends right now, Robin or any of the other people Iave lost track of since becoming a soldier. Anyone, really, so long as it isnat Tyler. I need to forget what I saw on the road. The squashed bodies, the vulture eating a kid. That poor boy with his arm in shreds. I need to be reminded that thereas a world out there apart from this one, a world where people have normal, nonviolent lives.

Thirty messages! I run my eyes down them eagerly.

Five ads for v.i.a.g.r.a. Three for p.o.r.n. One offering to extend my p.e.n.i.s. And a whole bunch for diets and dating servicesa"pretty ironic under the circ.u.mstances. And there, tucked away right at the bottom, the only four real messages on the whole screen. Four.

I open them, trying not to let the disappointment get to me. A sweet one from April full of misspellings. A couple friends from high school telling me they hope I stay safe. And yes, one from Robin. I lean forward to gulp it down.

Sheas found a modeling agency. Sheas posing for clothes catalogs. She loves the city. She has a new boyfriend. All is happiness and light. But at the bottom sheas written: aDid you hear Bush lied about the WMDs? Why are you guys still there?a Iave heard this kind of thing from her before. She was always against the war, and no matter how often I told her that soldiers canat choose their wars and arenat free to quit whenever they feel like it anyhow, she never believed I couldnat just walk away. We fought about it a lot till Tyler persuaded her to lay off of me, since I was going whatever she said. aDonat preach to me about my choices,a I remember telling her. aYou want to be a model. What good is that going to do for the world?a aYouave got no right to talk,a she snapped in return. aYou just signed up to be a baby killer.a This is getting depressing. f.u.c.king e-mail.

I close my eyes a moment, the gray face and b.l.o.o.d.y stump of that soldier searing across my vision. The bile rises again.

A shrieka"a shriek so piercing my eardrums press into my skull and snap. I slap my hands over my ears and stare into the eyes of the guy next to me. aGet down!a he screams. Thereas a blinding flash and the air sucks right out of my lungs. Then the whole building lifts and explodes.

I fling myself to the ground face-first and grope for my helmet, but itas pitch black now and I canat see it. Dense, gritty smoke is clogging my throat, and pieces of window and machinery and wall are crashing down all around me. I pull myself to my feet and run bent over, coughing and gagging, trying to find my way out, stumbling over things I canat see in the dark, hard things, soft things. aWhereas the way out?a I scream.

aHere!a Somebody grabs my hand and drags me out of the exit. A second mortar explodes. aDown!a he yells and I hit the ground again.

Flat on my stomach, arms over my head, I wait to feel it: Metal spearing my back. Leg ripping off. Head caving in, a weight pressing me down and downa Nothing.

I sit up, hacking and spitting, amazed that Iam still alive. And thatas when I hear the cries from inside the building: aG.o.d help me!a aJesus! Mommy! Jesus!a I jump up and run back in.

Pulling off the miniature flashlight pinned to my lapel, I shine it around in the dark. Six bodies in the rubble on the ground, soaked in blood and soot. Three have people crouched over them already, so I run to one of the othersa"an Iraqi worker, a long piece of shrapnel jutting from his throat. Blood is pulsing out of his neck and his black eyes are staring at me, terrified and pleading. I crouch down to find a way to help him, but just as I touch him something makes me look over at the other two bodies to see if theyare soldiers. They are. And right away, even in the dark, even in the smoke, I know.

aYvette!a I abandon the Iraqi and stumble over to her. Sheas lying twisted and broken, her head thrown back, neck arched, her limbs in all the wrong placesa"she looks like a giant hand has crumpled her up and tossed her to the ground. I sweep my flashlight over her to see whatas wrong. Sheas covered in so much blood I canat even tell where itas coming from. aYvette! Talk to me!a She doesnat. I lean over to stare into her eyes. She looks right back at me. She even has a little smile.

I grasp her wrist, slippery with blood, and feel for her pulse. Itas therea"thank G.o.d! Running my hands all over her quickly, I try to wipe away the ooze to see where sheas wounded. Sheas full of shrapnela"like a pincushion, thereas so much in her.

aMoan, d.a.m.n you!a I call to her in a sob. aMoan! Make a noise!a And then she does. Just a sigh, like you sigh when you lie down at the end of a long day.

I pick her upa"sheas such a little stick of a thinga"heave her over my back and stagger outside. Through the smoke I can see other soldiers loading the wounded into the rear of a Humvee, so I head over to them. One lifts Yvette off of me and helps me lay her down with the others. I jump up there, too, sitting with her among the wounded, listening to them groan and cry, holding her wet, bony little hand and staring into the flames and smoke and screams.

We drive fast as we can in the dark with no headlights. A third mortar comes shrieking in, falling fifty meters away from us with such a powerful explosion it rips open the ground like an earthquake, sending our Humvee careening out of control. I throw myself over the wounded and grab Yvette, my face pressed so tightly against her chest I can taste her blood seeping into my mouth. I hug her and hug her with all my strength, trying to keep the life inside of her.

As soon as we reach the field hospital, medics come running out of the dark with stretchers. aBe careful, sheas hurt real bad!a I yell to one. He helps me slide Yvette onto a stretcher. I take one end and we run inside.

A nurse rushes up to me. aYou hurt?a aNo itas my friend! Do something!a The nurse keeps staring at me. aYou sure?a Her eyes wonat stop running over me, so I glance down at myself. Every part of mea"from my hands to my bootsa"is slick with blood.

aItas not mine, itas hers!a I shout, pointing to Yvette, whose stretcher is lying on the ground. I look arounda where the f.u.c.k is the medic? Why isnat anyone helping her? aDo something!a I yell again.

The nurse steps forward, takes me firmly by the arm and leads me away. Somehow Iam in a chair then and time has slowed down and everybody is moving in slow motion and doing everything they can not to help Yvette. I want to scream and scream till they move.

aSoldier,a the nurse says, bending to look into my eyes. aYou need to get some rest.a THE BUS RATTLES through the outskirts of Albany for forty minutes before it finally reaches the soldieras stop. But now that sheas here, sheas not so sure she wants to be. Shead rather spend the rest of her life on this bus, cozy and enclosed, at neither one place nor another, all decisions and destinations suspended.

That being impossible, though, she forces herself to stand up, heaves her backpack over her shoulders with a wince and makes her way carefully down the aisle, trying not to jar her back. The pa.s.sengers eye her. She knows her walk looks weirda"half a swagger like a man, half a hobble like an old lady. She forgot how to walk normally in the Army because if you look at all feminine when you walk, the guys wonat leave you alone. That, and the injuries.

She clambers off the bus and watches it drive away, wishing she could call it back. Her hands are shaking more than ever and her stomachas churning acid. But itas too late to turn back now, as the song says. So she hitches up her backpack a little higher and forces herself down the hill, every swing of her leg sending a spasm through her messed-up spine.

Thereas no sidewalk here, just leaf-strewn gra.s.s, which she doesnat like walking on because she knows each step is murdering something. A ladybug or an ant. An earthworm or a flower.

She walks past rows of houses, snug and smug behind their fences, their lawns heaped with autumn leaves: ocher and copper and bronze. But she pa.s.ses no people. People donat walk in this part of the world, they only drive. So even though she sees kidsa tricycles, pumpkin-colored garbage bags, swing sets, early Halloween decorations, it feels as if the worldas ended and everyoneas been vaporized but her.

She tramps on, her sneakers rustling through the dying leaves. Bright red berries signal from bushes. The trees shimmer burnished gold. The air snaps. A bare ginkgo stands in a pool of tiny yellow fans, like a woman whoas just dropped her dress. A skeletal face pokes out of a window, leering at her, eyes bleeding. She falls to a crouch, back shooting pain, groping for her riflea Stand up, stupid. Itas only a mask.

Back on her feet, embarra.s.sed. One foot in front of the other. Keep going, just keep going.

Birds are carrying on all around hera"cardinals, robins, jaysa"although she canat hear their songs as well as she used to because her eardrums are f.u.c.ked. A dog barks, making her jumpa"she can hear that just fine. A woodp.e.c.k.e.r hammers on a telephone pole beside her, rat-tat-tat. She clenches her teeth and keeps walking.

The further down the hill she gets, the more the houses are s.p.a.ced apart, a lot of them with yards as big as fields. Some are messy with junked cars and lawnmowers. Some are decorated with deer statues, bear cutouts, skiing witches plastered face-first against trees. Some are so manicured their lawns look like Velcro. She thinks of the yellow mud houses in Iraq, the lean-tos made of cardboard stuffed with rags. The little kids begging.

A strange awareness seizes her, as if her body has shrunk inside her clothes and now theyare flapping around her like the sides of a tent. Sheas a Halloween skeleton dangling off a porch, only wrapped in a sack. Separated from her skin. Bones and flesh but no soul.

Stop this. Keep going.

The walk feels a hundred miles long. She doesnat care. Sheas so scared of what might happen that she half never wants to get there at all. But she does get there, of coursea" long before sheas ready toa"because what you donat want is what always comes easiest.

So here she is, standing in front of this house sheas dreamed of for months, her heart stuck halfway up her throat and her knees quivering so badly sheas afraid sheall fall down.

What if sheas making a terrible mistake?